Porcelain
by Crowskin
Summary: L is a doll, Light thinks; he ponders this as he watches L nibble daintily on a donut. Because what do dolls live on? On sugar and dreams and small-child magic.


Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note, and therefor disclaim it. Ha ha, get it?

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_**Tryst.**_

Ryuzaki is a doll, Light thinks. There is no wasted gesture, no carelessly expended energy, each move calculated as precisely as he calculates the percentage of his suspicion against Light. Ryuzaki picks up his tea with the same delicacy he arranges the capture of a local rapist that briefly interrupted their investigation. Ryuzaki is made of angles and geometry and logic and ink and pale-as-paper-milk-snow-death porcelain.

Clackclack go the limbs. Tinktinktinktinketytinktink go the lethargic inkwell eyes as they rotate to stare blandly at him. Clickclickclickclink are the fingers at the keyboard.

(-Whirr-) goes the mind.

(There is no wind-up on Ryuzaki's back, nor on his front, nor anywhere Light can see, except for perhaps on Light himself.)

Light ponders this as he watches Ryuzaki nibble daintily on a donut.

(Because what do dolls live on? On sugar and dreams and small-child magic.)

Light wonders if L is merely a shell, a clever facsimile of human form, controlled by a God from the heavens. As surely as he is convinced of his own Godhood, Light suspects L might be one as well. The man is perfect, after all, in his own inverted way. The Anti-Light. (The dark? The velvet dusk cradles the moon. You were destined to lose. Ryuzaki lives on in the inverted pale-as-paper-milk-snow-death porcelain Near, but your legacy depends on the boredom of another God. Admit it. You lost.) Light is the only one sophisticated enough to appreciate, albeit grudgingly, that perfection. (Doll.)

(Didn't you know? Only the Gods may fight on equal footing.)

Light likes to impose himself on other things. (It's in his very being to coat everything else in himself. Nature abhors a vacuum; the all consuming blackness of Ryuzaki's eyes checks him, balances him, just as Light balances Ryuzaki. Watari watches the barely-there gleam of interest on Ryuzaki's face with growing concern.) This, for interest; the livid mar against Ryuzaki's long, pale-as-paper-milk-snow-death throat is a blasphemy, the flare of color, deep and rich, vibrant and _alive_ goes against everything Ryuzaki is.

Forbidden fruit is the sweetest, after all. Ryuzaki would sympathize.

("... Ryuzaki? Why the turtleneck? You never dress up, not that it--" "Light-kun insisted that I deviate from my usual wardrobe on the basis that it might inspire a paradigm shift regarding the case.")

It's just another joke, another dirty human punch line. Pay no mind.

(It's so much easier to see the pin-point light when consumed in darkness.)

Ryuzaki repaid him in kind, of course; a 72 hour research stint without sleep bleached the healthy glow of color from Light's face, painted him in the washed out glare of computers. But for the hair, Light matched Ryuzaki complexion and countenance. Ryuzaki regarded it as a job well done, unconsciously fingering the faded signature on his neck.

(Not all dolls are benign. Some smile with needle fine teeth. Beware, for vengeful Gods abound.)

(Turn and spin, my pretty. Tilt and dream of sugar-plum fairies, protect the small ones and defy the laws of tradition.)

Light's ruin was like the sun. He began to burn brighter, faster, and the kisses trailing Ryuzaki's thin frame started to smolder with something more than the usual frenzied arousal. (If I were you, my glorious desert lion, I would take care to to rub dirt in my fur and try to look more like a kitten. Watch carefully and laugh as the giant hides behind the dwarf.) Their play became something more serious, something hurried and lethal, like smooth poison slipping silently, guilty, through the veins. Ryuzaki, at some point along the line, became aware of the change. Light knew this because of his eyes; Ryuzaki's eyes became as dull as they were when Light had first known him, greedily absorbing all light. Light remembers the days when he could see his reflection in Ryuzaki's gleaming eyes, but then again, he also remembers when he cared. It's only fucking they do now, their not-quite-love-making degenerating into something vulgar, impersonal. Light starts the token foreplay to maintain his facade; Ryuzaki gives the perfunctory response in hopes of returning to what they almost had before. He is naive in the ways of the flesh.

Now, Ryuuga-Ryuzaki-whatever-he-calls-himself is L, and Light is Kira.

It's better that way.

They die in accordance to their natures; L bathed in the glow of shattering logic and computer glow, silent and _aware_, and Light bleak and blazing with color and passion and so dreadfully stupid.

They both die alone, though they are eternally surrounded.

Ask the child.

(Only the Gods may fight on even footing.)

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Author's Notes: Dedicated to Nar, because it's her birthday, bitches! Wh00t! Happy birthday Nar! You're internet famous now!

Regarding some of the imagery -- The kanji spelling Light's name mean moon (Light), God, and night. And L is the Anti-Light, the Dark holding the moon, blah blah, you get it. This was written on a coffee high. Suiting. Hackin' review!


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